June 30th to July 2nd

Day 17: Towner to Minnewaukan (Devil's Lake). 83.7 miles. 7:59 in the saddle. (10.4 average!!!)
Day 18: Minnewaukan to Cooperstown 101.2 miles. 8:12 in the saddle.
Day 19: Cooperstown to Fargo. 85.3 miles, 7:44 in the saddle.Corresponding Quotations:
"Where will it end?"
"Where will it eeennnddd?"
"WHERE WILL IT END?"


Wednesday: the big one. Another 20 mile morning out of the gates into headwind, but it was sturdier. We scouted a subway and purchased 2nd breakfast and 2 lunches for the road, each (thanks, mom). It was here that we met Brian, the elusive figure that I mentioned who had to be rescued from Logan's Pass awhile back. The story was a little telephoned, but it did take 24 hours from when he started pushing his bike into snow (following a hiker's tracks) to when he exited onto pavement again. There was a lot of wandering and drying of socks over a propane stove. He was all smiles in announcing his achievement, but I wonder what sort of thoughts he had in the dead of night up there among the snowdrifts. We planned to meet him at the east end of devils lake (he was taking the north shore), but the winds we hit around the other side stopped us far short and I was disappointed to miss out on some stories. I should add that Brian works for food as he crosses the country, which sounds like a greater challenge than the ride.

Hitting a grocery, we found out the gusts would be topping out at 35-40 mph, with a high of 92 F.

I should cover what this wind means to us.

We ride comfortably at 15-18 through the day on flats. If we "crank it," we can get our momentum over 20, but this isn't necessary if you're putting in 8 hours with scattered hills.

When a wind like this hits you head on, you are reduced to 6-9 mph depending on the gust, but you are still cranking, and not comfortable. Add an incline and you stop checking your speedometer.
With wind from the side, your panniers act as sails, in our case pushing us off the shoulder into traffic. Dropping your shoulder, adding a tilt, and applying a steady pressure with your hand opposite the wind will keep you mostly straight, but the awkward riding and new physics keeps you around 12, tops.

At a 45 angle, the surface area of your pannier has been maximized (drawings on their way?). You get the picture. My dad kept chanting 'relentless,' and I found that no amount of Talking Heads would remedy the situation. There was no laughter, no chatter, just a steady influx of water and energy bars until we hit a campground. Mayflies had just hatched and carpeted our shorts (they apparently don't like to hang out on skin) and a fisherman on Devils Lake echoed many's sentiments that these winds were unusual. He also claimed that 5 foot waves were hitting his canoe and although I doubt most of what he said, we did find whitecaps on swimmingpool-sized ponds odd.

We ate 'til our stomachs hurt more than our legs.

A solid 6 hour sleep was easy until a thunderstorm hit us at four am. We had skipped the rainflys, of course, as the clear evening had some constellation potential. Groggy and damp at 6 am, we were packed to ride and full of oatmeal. The first road we found was flooded by devils lake, so we did some exploration without our routed maps again.

For the mosţ part, we've used maps from Adventure Cycling, a Missoula-based company that provides successive and sectional maps that cover mileage, groceries, elevation, and camping options for bikers. Some introverted wanderers might find that this takes the 'adventure' out of cycling as you pass other map-wielding riders, and have a fairly zoomed-in route to work with. But the roads are well researched, and after crossing two states since Fargo, we've had mixed emotions over wanting to use them again. We like running into other riders each day.

Our wandering involved knowing that Cooperstown was roughly halfway to Fargo, and everything is on a grid. As we crested hills on dirt roads, we could eye the inverted flasks of watertowers (every town has one) and triangulate based on a state map with only major roads. The occasional sign doesn't hurt, although many roads out there are nameless.

We had four hours and sixty-five miles of beautiful, windless riding, but high noon brought the gusts back to kick us back to riding 8 mph for the rest of the day.

The major highlight was the gas station in Tokio. I realize people stop listening when someone rants about the joys of convenience stores, but we were truly impressed. Not tied to any gas company, the owner took pride in his product options and kept it air conditioned. Instead of solely stocking the low-priced, processed items you'd expect, there were healthy and fresh options as well. Our coffee was free, but I couldn't tell if that was just a rule for cyclists. Outside, a short conversation with a man who organizes work groups to build houses for tribe elders lead to some tearful talk of hospice care. He gave us money for lunch, which we used, and decided to match to the fund as well.

I'll interject storytime again and talk a few words about grandpa Fuller. We get to say hello once or twice a day depending on cell phone coverage, and he has a little map that he and Liz use to follow our progress. He usually starts with "I'm still on planet earth today..." and likes an update on how the scenery has been changing. He also wishes he was right there pedaling along. In spirit and in our thoughts he is, as we try to capture a few blurry images to relay to him in the evening. But he recently changed his tune from 'I can't wait to hear you read your journal when you get back' (said to my dad) to 'just days left now.' My sister heard this and printed my blog posts to read to him, so he doesn't miss anything (he can't talk long on the phone anymore.) The time we've spent talking with him and about our family has mostly been omitted on this site, but affects us daily, so that's my update.

The 27 mile stretch of due South roads into headwinds made for the hardest afternoon we've seen. Our progress was comical and I could write a long time about it. I won't. But I will say that we enjoyed the company of eighteen-wheelers for the first time because their backdrafts afforded us a two to three second lull from wind. Backdraft? Is this the right word? Perhaps an air eddy? A wind alcove?

Cooperstown had a city park with a gazebo we set up in, since there were a lot of bored teenagers with their fireworks and mischief in the park, and we figured they couldn't get to us as easy in the wooden fortress.

We tried a 4 am alarm for Friday, since the winds tend to intensify with the day's heat. They hadn't lessened since the night before, so we trudged on. The winds were again straight southerly, and this route had only two direct south stretches, which were bookended by eastern, lean-and-fight-for-lane-positioning roads.

We met part of a team who had rented a car among three riders and alternated drivers, but still included 'out and backs' so each rider had their full cross-country mileage accounted for. I liked this idea more than convincing someone to be driver.

When we got to our last turn, which lead southeast into Fargo, my sister's friends met us in their truck. At 5 pm on a Friday of a holiday weekend, getting a ride through town to avoid everyone's trucks and boats sounded great, but our crossroad wasn't yet in the city proper. We had been looking forward to our arrival in Fargo through five days of wind, and at times considered going east, or northeast to just exit this flat state, so we didn't load the bikes.

Pointing to the next grain elevator, I asked if beyond it would be Fargo. Since this road lacked a "Welcome to..." sign, we decided it was. At only four miles away, it was the hardest 40 minutes I've seen. Yes, at 6 mph, we cricked our necks into a sad aerodynamic position and dug forward. With people watching who we almost knew, this was the best we could do, and the newsreport had the winds at 40 again. At about 20 minutes in, my chronically grimaced face confused my brain and I started streaming tears. I wasn't sad or angry, I had just exhausted what my body could do, and it was giving up. The lines on the ground turned magic eye. I was already riding in the dirt beyond the shoulder for my own safety, and it took no braking to stop for a bag of licorice and a liter. The fuel and the cowbell-like ringing of screwdriver on snow shovel got us to the end. Thank you for your spirited cheers, John and Amanda.

My dad was able to fall asleep in the ten minute car ride to their house. We ate home-cooked, and partially backyard-grown dinner. Stepping on a bathroom scale, we now had a goal for our day off in Fargo: eat and figure out how to eat more while riding the rest of the trip. My cognitive abilities returned the next day.